Got Cake? (2 page)

The most popular kid at Rotten School? Well, that's me, of course. Bernie Bridges. I suppose I'm probably the most popular fourth grader in history.

But don't ask me. Ask my
hundreds
of friends.

I'm a modest guy. I would never brag about how popular I am. Bragging is totally uncool.

How could I be the greatest dude who ever walked across campus if I bragged all the time?

So I'm not bragging. You can ask my twenty
best
friends.

They'd do
anything
for me. Anything.

It's easy to be surrounded by friends all the time. Really. You can do it, too. Here are my three rules for being popular:

1. Be generous
   
2. Be kind
   
3. Don't bite
   

I always try to follow all three rules.

That's why it was such a total shock to me when I had to
prove
how popular I am.

Whoa. Bernie Bridges in a popularity contest?

Could I lose? I don't
think
so.

I decided to prove it by throwing the biggest birthday party in the history of the known universe. But believe me, dudes and dudettes—it
wasn't
a piece of cake.

It all started on a sunny afternoon after classes. My friends and I were out on the Great Lawn, stomping on each other's shoes as hard as we could….

STOMP.

“Ohhhhh! It hurts! It HURTS!”

Maybe The Stomp hasn't come to your school yet. It will. It's the most popular sport at Rotten School now. Even more popular than opening your
mouth wide at lunch and showing off your chewed-up glob of spinach.

You can see kids stomping on each other all over campus. And you can hear their cries of pain and watch them hopping up and down on one foot until the pain fades away.

“Give me a break!”

“Stop! You broke all my toes!”

The Stomp started whenever some dude would show up wearing new shoes or new sneakers. As soon as we saw the shiny, clean shoes, we'd all hurry to stomp on them and scuff them and smash them and make them look old.

It's just the natural thing to do when you see new shoes. It probably started with the cavemen.

We
begged
our parents not to send us new shoes.
We all knew how painful new shoes would be.

And then some guys got the idea to stomp on shoes that
weren't
new! That's how the sport was born. Some kid walks by. You stop him. You stomp your heel down on his shoe. Then you take out a stopwatch and see how long he can hop on one foot.

It hurts! It HURTS!”

Hop hop hop hop.

“Good work, Feenman!” I called to my friend. “You beat your old record. You hopped for twenty-three seconds.”

I raised my stopwatch. “Try again, dude. If we can get it up to twenty-
eight
seconds, you can beat Joe Sweety's school record.”

“But I don't
want
to beat the school record!” Feenman moaned. His face was bright red, and tears rolled down his cheeks. He stood on one leg and rubbed his sore foot.

“Don't be selfish,” I said. “You know I bet Sweety twenty dollars we could beat his record.”

I signaled to Crench, my other good buddy. “Get Feenman started.”

STOMMMMMMP!

Crench tromped down on Feenman's shoe.

Feenman let out a howl and started hopping up and down on one foot.

I cheered him on as I stared at the stopwatch. That's another reason I'm popular. I'm always eager to cheer my guys on.

Feenman fell on his face after only fifteen seconds.
He lay in the grass, whimpering softly.

I could see he needed more cheering.

“One more try!” I shouted. “You can do it. You know my motto, Feenman.
No pain, no gain.”

“But, Bernie—” he moaned. “
You're
not the one who's in pain!”

“But I'm the one who wants to
gain
,” I said. “I'll gain twenty bucks if we beat Joe Sweety's record.”

I motioned to Crench. “Get him on his feet. We're not quitters—are we?”

Crench bent down and started to pull Feenman up. My friend Nosebleed came by. He had a fat wad of tissues pressed to his nose.

“What's up?” I asked.

“Mmmmww, mwwwww,” he said.

“I can't understand you,” I said.

“That's cuz I have a fat wad of tissues pressed to my nose,” he replied. “Wes Updood stomped on my new sneakers, and it gave me a nosebleed.”

He shook his head sadly. “It ruined my yearbook photo. Do you believe I have a nosebleed in my yearbook photo? How totally uncool is that?”

I slapped my forehead. “It's yearbook photo week? Oh, wow. I forgot all about it!”

“They call you when it's your turn,” Crench said.

“I have to talk to them first,” I said. “You
know
my photo has to be
perfect
. Kids won't buy the yearbook unless they know they're getting a perfect Bernie Bridges photo. Something to remember me by.”

I spun away from them and starting jogging across the grass. The yearbook office was in the School House building, and I had to get there fast.

“Bernie—” I heard Crench shout. “Should I stomp on Feenman's foot and get him going again?”

“Stomp on your
own
foot!” I shouted back. “Maybe
you
can beat the record!”

“Okay. I'll give it a try.